Yours, mine, ours.
I recently finished reading a book about being trapped in the same day over and over again, which presented the concept of a rift in time in the context of complex minutiae and how we factor small events into larger ones. Even our best sense of recall leaves out quite a bit. The actual route between kitchen and bath, for example; or what happens on the other side of the switch that allows our betting apps to re-charge.
The low and slow approach to movement or reading by candlelight dispenses a luster all its own. We are free to partake, understand its nourishing powers, and to ignore these in lieu of better light and quicker options, to relegate them to novels and the pity of grateful authors.
Legs may tire and the candle burns down, marking progressive time very distinctly in ways that are only typically confusing. And these methods share something else: a hovering sense of the immediate. We declaim poetry in the same manner that we accept a holiday, earned or not, observant of its nature or not. That is, gladly. Attuned to bare arms and all they may evoke, how they interrupt our struggle for productivity with suggestion. Seen in this light, the need to produce, develop, accrue is as unnatural as time travel. The many dumb reasons behind events of note and other current happenings dumb us down, so be wary. Be suspect, call out. Use fancy old words if you so choose. Declaim.
Baudelaire was unsparing and left so much popcorn on the forest floor it can be hard to discern the trail. But discern we must. Find your way. Write your music and play it.
Happy Holiday.
Image: American Flag by R. A. Miller